Stupid Little Song of My Life
by iExperiment
Summary: Just because the song fits doesn't mean Bart needs to hear it. He's already too familar with the life it talks about.


_Phew, it's finally done! This thing just kept growing and growing, until finally I decided it just needed to be DONE. But I got lazy and didn't put it up before I left for vacation…I think it's actually almost a songfic of a sort, now that I really look at it…anyways, enjoy some more Blue Beetle stuff and forget that I'm so slow at finishing my stories. *cries* I don't own Young Justice 'cause if I did it'd still be airing. *fume*Also, cookie bonus to anyone who actually recognizes the random girl in here…_

_Lyrics in the dirt, and the thoughts that tumble about with them like the dust they're written in, as slaves' weary feet walk over them and around them. Before his eyes, the thoughts fly away, but they are forever in his mind's eye. _

'Ring around the rosie.'

The sight of the Reach command ship hovering above the ugly brown metal tower they had built when the Reach had finally conquered Happy Harbor.

"_There used to be a park there. And a children's playground."_

'Pocket full of posies.'

The little clump of maroon flowers that he had tucked into his left pocket after she died. They were her favorite. They had been his favorite, too.

'_I think I loved you, Valerie. Sorry I…I never got to tell you. Sorry I was too scared you wouldn't love me back. Sorry I let them take you. Sorry, Valerie. Just sorry.'_

'Ashes, ashes.'

The sooty black snow that tumbled from the sky, somehow warm enough that it mingled so completely with the ashes that fell with it that no one could tell them apart.

"_Brrr. It's actually kinda' cold out tonight. … Feels like a storm's coming, too." _

'We all fall down.'

'_I don't know who scratched the words of that funny little song in the dirt, but it kinda' sounds like my life. Funny, huh? I wonder if they thought the same thing as they were writing it…'_

Neut-Nathaniel, on his knees, arms over his head in an attempt to protect himself from the brutal blows of the Reach enforcers. Not that it did him any good. They just kicked at his sides and shoulders with their huge heavy boots. Supposedly they had overheard him speaking out against the Reach. Bart grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't care, but he cringes every time a blow lands. 'He should have just kept his mouth shut.' He thinks, with all the bitterness he can muster. But he can really only get angry at the enforcers for doing this, and at himself for not being able to do anything to stop it. 'Stupid.' He thinks, as the blows fall and fall, and now he can't even tell what it is that he's referring to. Not that it really matters, now does it? It all is. 'Just stupid.'

Lian Nguyen-Harper, beaten in front of everyone for stealing extra food from the Reach distributors. The enforcers call her out for trying to "upset the balance" and "taking more than her fair share". B.s. Bart knows who it's really for. Lian's father, Roy, who lost his right arm 8 years ago. He's a listless, haggard old man now, and unable to do his full allotment of work. So Lian does it for him. Technically, she should get her rations and his, but the Reach keeps finding new ways to cheat her out of it. Go figure. He turns away and walks from the "demonstration" with a hard heart. She should have been more careful.

The only time Bart thought that the Reach might have bitten off more than they could chew was when the Reach administrator assigned to Happy Harbor tried to get Damian to bow to him. Nobody knew much about Damian, except that he was skilled and clever and mean. The young man had such a cruel streak that even the toughest slaves, those few who still existed, wen well out of their way to avoid him. The last poor fool who challenged him ended up with a broken arm and nose and far fewer teeth than he entered this world with. If Damian had been disliked before, he was a total outcast now. And if his attitude was anything to go off of, he doesn't mind a bit.

The Reach administrator minds his attitude, though. "Bow." he intones in the deep, unfocused voice of one accustomed to being listened to. To his credit, Damian remains silent, but his flashing dark eyes and thin, puckered up line of a mouth say it all. The admin's eyes narrow. He's paying attention now. He takes a step closer, no doubt trying to intimidate him, but getting too close to Damian generally only irritates him further. "Are you deaf, slave #47666?" he whispers. Damian meets his glare with one as equally terrifying and utterly cold. "No." he whispers back. The administrator leans until his mouth is a mere inch from Damian's ear. "Then bow." Damian mimics the motion and holds for a moment, then almost hisses in his ear, "No." Half a breath later and he is reeling from the admin's shockingly powerful backhand. He steels himself and glares at the man, and Bart is afraid he's actually going to attack him. For a moment, it seems Damian and the admin both think so too. Then, wonder of all wonders, Damian shakes himself, straightens up, and steps back. Controls himself. Impressed as Bart, and no doubt everyone else, is, this one time control isn't good enough. The administrator's bodyguards form up in a tight circle around Damian, techno clubs raised. And Bart begins to back away, seeking a way out of the crowd seeking an escape, because he knows what's coming. A "demonstration". And no matter how much he hates Damian, what's about to happen he wouldn't wish on anyone. He reaches the back of the crowd before he realizes the regular guards and taskmasters have formed up themselves, hovering at the perimeter of the crowd with their own weapons already in hand. Bart retreats into the crowd and tries to control his shaking knees. No one will be leaving today. Everyone will know what happens when you defy the region administrator. And before Bart can decide the safest place to stand, where he won't draw any attention during this torture, he hears the first sounds of techno clubs on flesh. And the slaves around him spread out and back, and he has a front row seat to watch. Oh goodie. Just what they all wanted. A VIP seat to watch another of their own beaten in a public display of Reach dominance. Bart wanted to puke. To Damian's credit, the only sounds out his mouth was a steady grunt, reaffirming how tough the young man was. Almost to Bart's relief, he didn't even try to fight back; just put his arms over his head and lay there as blows rained down on him. 'The less you fight, the sooner they get bored and give up.' Bart thinks, and the relief he feels at such submission brings another round of bile up his throat. 'This is how you conquer a people. You pick one, and you hurt them until the rest are so sick of watching you degrade and wound the ones they care about that they'll do anything to make you stop.' His knees are shaking so bad now that he can't stand up anymore. As he sinks to the ground, his eyes meet Damian's, and all thoughts of defeat are banished as he can think of nothing but running away from the inconsolable humiliation and anger in the other's eyes. 'I'm sorry.' He mouths, the tears welling up hot in his eyes and making tracks in the dirt on his face. Damian stares at him in resignation and acknowledgement, and then simply puts his head back down into the dirt and waits out the end of his punishment. As soon as the administrator waves off the guards, Bart flees. He doesn't know where to, he doesn't care where to. He just needs to run, and while none of this can compare to the breakneck speeds he could run at without the inhibitor collar, it's the closest he can get to freedom. In mere moments, the guards will close in and he'll have to stop running. Have to show them he's not running far from them. But for now, he loses himself in the pounding of his footsteps and the stiff, chill breeze in his face, and pretends that he's breaking the sound barrier like he used to. Pretends that he's free like he used to be, and that the Reach and Nathaniel, and Lian, and the nameless slaves around him, and especially Damian, don't exist.

Freedom.

Later that evening, during his scant evening meal, he takes a small, stout stick and scratches words into the dirt.

'_Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies; ashes, ashes…we all…fall…down.'_

He stares at those words for one still, silent moment; then in a fury out of nowhere he scribbles them out with the stick. He doesn't need some stupid song to tell him how life works.

He's living that life right now.


End file.
